The Adventure of the Dying Detective
by MadameGiry25
Summary: John Watson is a very forgiving man. But even he can't be expected to keep his patience all the time. Gift!fic for The Bitter Kitten.


**In which John Watson's nerves are stretched to the limit and discovers the true bounds of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. Inspired by the ACD story of the same name. Gift!fic for The Bitter Kitten.**

**Merry Christmas, Kitten! *snuggle* Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

John Watson had to admit that he always found Christmas shopping to be difficult. He never knew exactly what to purchase for the people on his list; even worse, he was always afraid that they would despise whatever he did purchase, making the entire exercise worthless. It was for that reason that he was always a bit on edge when it came to the holiday seasons.

Not that there were very many people that he needed to buy for at the moment. Naturally, there was Sherlock and Harry, as well as Greg and even Molly. Mrs. Hudson, and… oh dear, he knew that he was forgetting someone important. John sighed, knowing that he probably wouldn't remember until the time for gift giving had arrived, and then it would be too late. And he would probably kick himself for forgetting someone so obvious. Yes, this was a very difficult task. He should have made a list.

He'd been staying with Harry for a few days, trying to nurse her out of one of her heavy drinking spells. It wasn't easy. Trying to bring her back to a sober state was about as difficult as trying to deprive Sherlock of an interesting case; Harry fought tooth and claw.

John knew that she didn't mean it. He knew that she understood he was doing this for her own good. But that didn't stop him from feeling the distress and frustration at her when she fought him like that.

Finally, it was time for him to return to Baker Street. Christmas was coming and Harry had made more than her usual effort to get cleaned up. As much as he'd like to think that was because of Christmas, John knew perfectly well that it was just for another of her fleeting affairs. Oh, well. He supposed that he should be grateful she was making a remote effort and not leaving it all to him.

So, he'd decided to make his way back to Baker Street via some of the shops in town to finish his Christmas shopping. He'd picked up a few packages and was now trying to decide on a gift for Greg when he was interrupted by the buzzing of his mobile. He slid it out of his jacket pocket and selected the message. It was from Greg.

_You'd better get back to Baker Street fast. GL_

Confused at the message, he put the phone back in his pocket and hurried to the front of the store with his packages in tow. He cursed inwardly at the ridiculously leisurely girl who was ringing his purchase up. Finally, he gave up and tossed a few pounds at her, gathering up the bags and hurrying out the door to get a taxi.

Once inside the taxi, he sat back against the door with a feeling of confusion. He knew that a message from Greg Lestrade of that caliber was not to be taken lightly. The only problem was that he had no idea what in the world was happening. A new case, perhaps? But why would that warrant his speedy return to Baker Street? Surely they didn't need his assistance. Had something happened to Mrs. Hudson? Surely not… Of course, nothing could have happened to Sherlock. That was unthinkable, and Greg would have told him instead of leaving him to wonder.

He sighed, knowing that the only think he could do now was to wait.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked, throwing his packages down on the kitchen table with fuming angry energy. "Didn't it occur to you that I might want to know what's going on?"

Greg Lestrade crossed his arms defiantly and nodded to the man on the couch. "He wouldn't let us, that's why I didn't tell. You know how forceful he can be."

The man on the couch scowled up at John. His curly, dark hair was matted with sweat, and his face was gaunt and pale. He lay very still, his long and lean form stretched out as though he was trying to stretch his limbs but hadn't the strength. "John," he started to say, but was interrupted by a coughing fit that left him gasping for breath.

John shook his head. "Mrs. Hudson, can you get him some water?"

Mrs. Hudson could only shake her own head in response. "I can get him some water, but it won't do him any good if he refuses to drink it."

"What do you mean?" asked John, dreading the answer.

"He hasn't drunk anything for the past three days. Nor eaten anything either. Nothing I can do will persuade him ."

John turned on his friend. "Sherlock?"

The sick man continued to scowl, despite the obvious weakness on his face. His feverish eyes glistened up at John. The doctor was suddenly aware of a disturbingly thick crust that seemed to have formed on the lips. _Well, Sherlock, that's what you get for not drinking for three days._

"Sherlock, you're going to drink something now," said John briskly, hoping that his professional tone would have some effect on his friend. "It's not going to do you any good to refuse, so you're just going to have to do what I say. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock glared at Mrs. Hudson and Greg. "Then get them out," he rasped. "I don't want them in here." It seemed to take a great deal of strength for him to speak, but he was determined to speak nonetheless.

Greg was already moving toward the door as Sherlock spoke. "I've had enough of him for now, John. It's your turn."

John sighed. "Thanks, Greg. Mrs. Hudson?"

She nodded, looking nervously at her lodger. "He's impossible, Doctor. I'm at my wit's end, really I am. I hope you have more luck getting through to him."

"We'll see," said John, knowing that convincing Sherlock to do anything he didn't want to do would be another battle. He couldn't help running his fingers through his hair in exhaustion, considering that he had just spent a week with his sister trying to convince her to do something that she didn't want to do either. Somehow, it didn't seem right that he got all the fun when it came to ill patients. He felt almost as though he should be sharing some of this love.

Sarcasm aside, he went into the kitchen and hunted for a clean glass, which was much easier said than done. Apparently, Mrs. Hudson had been so distracted by the ill patient that she hadn't even bothered to take advantage of an opportunity to do a bit of cleaning. Finally finding a glass that wasn't completely disgusting, he quickly ran it through the sink with a cloth and some soap before filling it with clean water.

Returning to the living room, he moved toward Sherlock to give him the glass. "Now, Sherlock," he began.

"Get back!" hissed Sherlock, looking furious. "You get back!"

John had to admit that he was surprised by this unexpected reaction. But he pressed forward nonetheless. "Sherlock, don't be a child. You need to drink this. You'll feel better, I promise, when you aren't completely dehydrated."

"Can't you see that this…" he trailed off, his eyes moving toward the ceiling. "Watson," he slurred, his eyes strangely unfocused. "Watson, do you have the time?"

"It's half nine in the morning, said John, deciding to humor him for the time being, although he was unsure why Sherlock was referring to his friend by his surname.

"Too late," sighed Sherlock, flailing his arms around. "Too late."

"Too late?" repeated John, looking bewildered. "Too late for what?"

"Too late."

"All right then," said John with a shake of his head. "Well, we'll just have to do it another time. Hopefully it wasn't too important."

"Too…."

John decided that it would be all right to take advantage of the confusion so far as to get the cup of water to his lips. It was time for Sherlock to drink whether he liked it or not.

"Get back!" shrilled Sherlock, his voice going disturbingly high. "Can't you understand English? Or would you prefer I spoke French instead?"

"French? Sherlock, this is getting ridiculous." John set the water down with a bang that sloshed water all over the end table. "You're going to let me take a look at you. This is no time to be childish."

Sherlock gave a dramatic flop onto his front and proceeded to scowl the same death glare as before. "What's wrong with being childish? You don't know what you're getting yourself into. What do you know of diseases like this?"

"Diseases like what?" John threw up his arms in annoyance.

"Well, what do you think I have?"

"I don't know because you won't let me get close enough to get a good enough look at you to tell!"

Sherlock groaned, one arm seizing toward his stomach. "Oh, you think that you need to get close to me to tell what I have. Can't you see that…" he groaned again, grimacing and clutching fervently at his midsection.

"I can't see anything from all the way across the room," returned John dryly. "Sherlock, you are absolutely incorrigible. Why didn't you call for me sooner? You knew that I would have come if you'd needed me."

"I didn't call you," spat Sherlock. "Lestrade did."

John rolled his eyes. "We're not playing this game. I'm examining you whether you like it or not."

And with that, John strode purposefully across the room, ignoring Sherlock's growled protests. He knelt down next to the sick man, carefully feeling for his pulse. "Sherlock?" he asked suspiciously, feeling a remarkable lack of difference to a healthy pulse, let alone the fact that a man with eyes that feverish should be radiating a lot more heat than he actually was. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

Sherlock propped himself up on one arm, looking John over for a long moment. Then he sighed and pulled himself into a sitting position. "I suppose…"

"You suppose what?" asked John, letting the wrist he had been holding fall onto the couch next to the supposed invalid. "You're not sick at all, are you." It was a statement, rather than a question because John couldn't help but feel annoyed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well…"

John rolled his eyes. "Would you like to tell me exactly what's going on here? Why are you pretending to be sick?"

"Well, I've been working on a theory as of late."

"A theory." John couldn't believe his ears. "A theory."

"Yes. Should the need ever arise, I wanted to be able to pretend that I was seriously ill without rousing the suspicion of the wrong party."

"Malingering in other words." John shook his head. "Shirking."

"Now, I never said that," said Sherlock. "You never know. The need could arise in the future."

"I'm sure that it could." John was on his feet now, and he returned to the place where he had abandoned the glass of water. "But you really haven't eaten or drank anything in three days, have you."

"There is no better method of disguise than depriving yourself when you're trying to look ill."

"Certainly not. Do you want a drink?" John pursed his lips, still very annoyed at Sherlock for playing this game.

"I think that would be most welcome. Perhaps a small sandwich and a sponge to remove the makeup?" asked Sherlock, brushing the annoyance of his friend away.

John turned and went back into the kitchen. "There'll be no Christmas presents for you this year, you old…"

As he went about making the sandwich, he couldn't help but shake his head once more. Really, that man knew how to stretch the loyalty of friendship to the limit.


End file.
